


It Was Just That the Time Was Wrong

by dettiot



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 01:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2089842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dettiot/pseuds/dettiot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two percent of the world’s population can travel in time, a much-studied yet barely-understood occurrence that is triggered when one of the affected reaches their twenty-first birthday.  Each time traveler has an anchor: someone they interact with at various points in their respective lives who stabilizes their trip into the past.  What happens when two travelers named Chuck and Sarah have each other as anchors . . . and they fall in love?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a prompt from fakecuddling on Tumblr, who asked for Chuck or Sarah as a time traveler with the other one as their anchor. I took the prompt in a slightly different direction, but one that I hope y’all will enjoy. And I read about a hundred pages of _The Time Traveler’s Wife_ before stopping because I was bored. Hopefully, you won’t do the same to my fic!

XXX

_I can't do the talk like they talk on TV_  
 _And I can't do a love song like the way it's meant to be_  
 _I can't do everything but I'd do anything for you_  
 _I can't do anything except be in love with you_  
 _Romeo & Juliet_, Dire Straits

XXX

Chuck Bartowski is nine years old and he’s hiding behind the last row of bookshelves in the Encino-Tarzana branch of the Los Angeles Public Library. He’s hiding because he doesn’t want anyone to know that he’s crying. 

It’s been three weeks since his mom disappeared, and he doesn’t understand what’s going on. His dad stays locked up in his office and only comes out when Ellie bangs on the door and yells that they don’t have anything to eat. And he only opens the door because he can’t slide money under the door. 

On TV, when people disappear, the police get called. In comics, the Avengers or the Justice League would help find a missing person. But no one seems to be looking for his mom. Except Chuck. And he just wants her to come home and read him a story and make him feel safe. Ellie tries her best, and she does help . . . but he really wants his mom back. 

Suddenly there’s a soft gasp and Chuck looks up, rubbing away his tears quickly. Then his eyes go wide, as he sees who’s standing at the end of the aisle. 

It’s the prettiest lady he’s ever seen. Prettier than Black Canary or She-Ra. The lady is blonde, just like those superheroes, with big blue eyes that are staring at him like she’s seen a ghost. 

He rubs his hand over his cheeks again, feeling his ears turn red. There’s nothing wrong with crying--everyone cries. But he feels embarrassed by the way the lady is staring at him. “Um, hi?” he says, his voice squeaking a little. 

Just like that, the lady seems to realize what she was doing. Her face smooths out, reminding him a little bit of his mom. Chuck presses his lips together and pushes himself up to his feet, not wanting to start crying again. “Hi,” he says again. “Are you lost?” 

She nods slowly. “Yes . . . a little.” She looks around, then back at him. She smiles, a bit weakly. “Hi. I’m S-Sam.” 

There’s a bit of a catch in her voice, like she was going to say some other name. But then, maybe he’s just imagining it. 

“I’m Chuck,” he says. “If you’re lost, the librarian can help you. She’s right over there.” He points in the general direction of where the librarians sit at their desk and answer questions. 

Sam nods, not looking away from him. “Yes, of course.” She takes a step back, then stops. “I . . . why were you crying just now?”

He’s not sure if he should tell her. What if she calls the police and he and Ellie get taken away from their dad? What if he never sees Ellie or Dad or Morgan again, on top of maybe never seeing Mom again? 

But . . . but he doesn’t think she would do that. Sam seems nice. And a little sad. So Chuck tells her the truth. 

“My mom’s missing and no one’s telling me anything about where she is. And--and I miss her.” 

Sam’s face changes at his words. At least, her eyes get a lot softer and sadder, making her look like she might cry. “I’m sorry, Chuck. I wish I could help.” She crouches down a little, looking right into his eyes. “But I’m sure your mom will come home someday.” 

Something about the way she looks at him makes his stomach feel funny. In a good way, not like how it did the morning after eating that cherry cheesecake with Morgan. But before he can say anything, like ‘thank you’ or ‘do you really think so?’, there’s the sound of stomping feet and his best friend’s voice. 

“Chuck? Hey, Chuck!” 

“Shhhh, Morgan! You’re gonna get us in trouble,” Chuck says, quickly brushing past the lady and looking around the end of the bookcase at Morgan. 

“Ooops! Sorry,” Morgan says, whispering loudly. “Ellie’s looking for you. And she’s upset. You better come now.” 

Chuck frowns and nods. “Okay, lemme just say--” He turns and blinks. Sam is gone. Like she just went poof and vanished into thin air. Just like his mom. 

“Say what?” Morgan says, coming to stand beside Chuck. 

Maybe he was going crazy. No, he definitely was. Imagining pretty blonde ladies, talking to him and saying nice things. Chuck sighs, feeling his shoulders droop some. “Nothing, Morgan. C’mon, let’s go.” He turns and starts walking, letting Morgan chatter excitedly about something or other. Chuck’s not really listening. He’s worrying about what’s bothering Ellie. He’s scared about what’s going to happen. But he’s also wondering if maybe Sam had been real. 

XXX

_When she was back in her right time, Sarah Walker closed her eyes tightly and tried not to cry. Because if she started now, she might not ever stop. She has encountered her husband at a hundred different times in his life, but the image of nine-year-old Chuck, all curls and gangly limbs, crying because his mother was gone . . . It broke her heart. Especially since she knew what had happened when he found his mother._

_She rolled over in their bed and pulled his pillow against her chest with one arm. The other arm she wrapped around her gently-rounded stomach, wishing that Chuck was here. Home, with her, safe and sound. Not lost in time again._

_But this time, when he came back, she was going to tell him the truth. Tell him what her real name was. Just so he would know. It was something she should have told him a long time ago, really. Even though it broke their rule of no secrets, no lies, Sarah had held on to this one secret. So even though he actually kind of already knew her real name, since she had just told his nine-year-old self, she would tell him when he got back. Because she knew he wouldn’t really remember her telling him her name._

XXX

It’s very dark tonight, because there’s no moon. Sam looks around, but in a casual way. She keeps her pace steady, trying not to attract any attention. She has less than a half-mile to go until she’ll be back at the motel. Where she can eat the can of baked beans she’s got in the plastic bag in her hand, where she can watch some TV with the door locked until her dad comes home. 

If he comes home tonight at all. 

Biting her lip a little, Sam keeps walking. There’s not many cars along this dusty stretch of California highway, so if anyone tried anything . . . 

Sam reaches into her pocket and grips her pocket knife. She’ll be fine. She just has to get to the motel. 

There’s less than five hundred feet to go when suddenly, a beat-up pickup truck pulls up beside her. Sam carefully pulls her knife out, keeping it by her side. She’s close enough to the motel that she could run, if she didn’t have to cross the road. So it’s better to be armed, just in case. 

“Hey, honey,” says a slurred voice inside the dark cab. “You wanna ride, sugar?” 

“No, thank you,” Sam says, inching past the truck. “I’m fine, mister.” 

“C’mon, don’t be like that, pretty little thing like you . . .” 

Now Sam knows the driver is drunk. She’s all skinny and bony, with hair she keeps back in a ponytail. Her jeans are dirty and her sneakers have holes in them. She’s not pretty. 

And a drunk is unpredictable. 

She ignores him and looks back and forth so she can cross the road. She’s halfway to the other side when a door slams and she realizes the driver has climbed out, leaving his car running with the headlights on. 

“C’mere an’ I’ll give you a treat,” he says, menace and glee wrapped up in his voice. Sam doesn’t want to look at him, but some cold, clinical part of her makes herself. Kind of tall, kind of fat with a beer belly that hangs out between his stained white tank and his jeans, wearing boots with steel toes. 

If he hurts her, and she goes to the police, she’ll have to be able to describe him. 

“No,” she says, trying to make her voice sound firm. But a little quiver leaks through, and Sam knows this man hears it and likes it. He likes knowing that she’s scared. Likes scaring twelve-year-old girls who just want to go home and eat dinner. 

Sam takes a step back, not wanting to turn around. Not yet. She’s still too far from the motel, and she’d have to get out her key and get it in the door and the lock sticks . . . 

The man takes two more steps, and he’s nearly within arm’s reach. 

And then the truck goes silent and the headlights go dark. Sam can see someone standing by the truck, someone who must have turned the key in the ignition, as she turns and runs for the motel. She doesn’t know why someone came along and stopped the truck’s engine, but she knows a sign when she sees one. 

Somehow, over the sound of her pounding feet and ragged breaths, she hears something. Sam looks over her shoulder, then slides to a stop as she sees the drunk man getting his ass kicked. 

There’s so little light that she can barely figure out what’s going on. It looks like another man, a man who is beating up the drunk. She’s curious about what kind of person would do that--did he hear what the drunk was saying to her? Did he put two and two together and step in to stop this? 

Sam needs to figure this out. She doesn’t know anyone who would ride to the rescue like this for someone like her. So she takes a few steps towards the road, getting a better look. 

The stranger is really tall. And he’s skinny, but from the way the drunk is whimpering after each punch, there must be some muscle there, too. It’s like he’s some kind of ninja. He’s got dark hair and he’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt. 

The drunk collapses on the road and the stranger stops, taking a deep breath. He runs a hand through his hair and even in the near-dark, Sam can tell his hand is shaking. Like he’s upset at what he’s done. 

And something in her makes her want him to know she appreciates what he did. That if he hadn’t helped her, bad things would be happening to her, right now. Softly, she calls out, “Thanks, mister.” 

He whirls around, nearly stumbling over his own feet and falling flat on his butt. And Sam can’t help the small giggle that escapes her lips before she slaps her hand over her mouth. 

The stranger gives her a sheepish, rueful smile. “Some superhero, huh? Nearly wiping out over my own feet.” He grows serious and steps towards her, but keeps plenty of space between them. “Are you okay?” 

Sam nods. “Yeah--nothing happened. He just . . .” She lets her voice trail off, and the stranger finishes her sentence.

“Scared you?” 

She nods again and shifts her feet. “Yeah. So, um, thanks.” 

He smiles a little. “You’re welcome. Where were you going?” 

It’s a little weird that he asks where instead of why. Why is she out here at this hour, why is she all alone. But then, this whole night feels pretty weird, so Sam just accepts it. “Here,” she says, jerking her thumb over her shoulder towards the motel. Something she wouldn’t tell most people, even ones who had saved her from a bad situation. But something about this guy makes her trust him. 

If only there was some moonlight for her to see him better. 

The man nods. “Good. Get on home now and I’ll take care of this . . . gentleman,” he says, gesturing to the drunk who’s now half-snoring, half-moaning on the pavement. “And be careful.” 

“Uh-huh,” Sam says, turning for the motel. 

“I mean it,” he says, his voice very adult: all firm, but also with a lot of concern in it. “Be careful.” 

She looks back at him, feeling surprised. Because it’s like . . . like he knows her. She can’t put her finger on it, and he sure doesn’t look familiar at all. But--but he knows her. And his words are just as much warning as some kind of request. Like he needs her to stay safe. 

That’s . . . that’s really weird. And nice. Sweet, really. And Sam doesn’t know what to do with all this, and she’s never going to see this guy again, so . . . “Okay. I will,” she says, looking at him for a minute before breaking into a run for her motel room. 

Once she’s inside with the door locked, Sam peeks out through the curtains. The stranger has moved the drunk guy into the truck--more proof that he was stronger than he looked--and is now standing by the side of the road, holding something that lights up his face. Could it be one of those new cell phones she’s seen on TV? But she didn’t know they were so small . . . 

Whatever it is, it’s not enough light for her to see the stranger’s face, not from this distance, and after a moment the light vanishes. She doesn’t know what happens, but the next morning, the truck is gone and her dad is back, whisking Sam away to the next town full of citizens to con. 

XXX

_He always knew she had it rough as a child. And that she had left things out when she talked about those days. But seeing a twelve-year-old Sarah, hearing her voice shake as she tried not to show how scared she was of a drunk pedophile . . . it made his blood burn. Made him lose control, in a way that had never happened to him before. Not even with Shaw._

_Chuck looked at his computer monitor. While he had taken his trip to the past, the screensaver had kicked on, cycling through the photos folder on his computer. And all the images were of him and Sarah. He reached out to touch the screen when an image appeared of Sarah at Ellie and Devon’s wedding. The screen was cold; pixels had no warmth. Not like Sarah’s skin._

_He missed her so much. He just wanted her back home, to be done with this never-ending mission against Alexei Volkoff. When they were together again, he was going to hold her so close to him and he wasn’t going to let her go. She wouldn’t remember that he had been there for her that day, so many years ago . . . but she would know he was here for her now._

XXX

The morning that Ellie pointed out that he needed new jeans, because you can see almost his entire tube sock in the pair he’s wearing, Chuck decides he hates growth spurts. 

Well, no, he doesn’t hate them. He didn’t want to stay five foot eight forever. But growing eight inches in one year . . . he feels like an alien. Like his mind’s been stuck into someone else’s body, one that he doesn’t know how to use. He keeps bumping into things or falling over his own feet. 

And with how tight money is, the last thing Ellie needs is worrying about keeping him decently clothed. 

But there’s nothing he can do about growing out of his clothes à la the Hulk, so before he goes to the comic book shop, he heads over to the Goodwill. 

It’s probably a futile quest: the last two times he came to Goodwill, he couldn’t find anything that was long enough for his freakish giraffe legs. But he has to try. Goodwill means he can get all his comics; Old Navy means he’ll have to beg Al at the comic shop to give him another week to pay for all the books Chuck has in his subscriber box. Al’s already bent the rules for Chuck before and Chuck doesn’t want to get the guy in trouble. 

Flipping through the racks, Chuck finds himself bobbing his head in time with Hooked on a Feeling as it plays over the P.A. system. He hears someone humming, on the other side of the rack and off to his right where he can’t really see who it is. It’s a woman, he thinks. 

He gets distracted when he spots a pair of jeans that might be a contender. He pulls them off the rack and holds them against himself, and he grins when he realizes they’re long enough. He can’t help bursting out with a celebratory “ooga-chaka ooga-ooga-chaka ooga-ooga-ooga-chaka!” 

There’s laughter behind him, and Chuck spins around and nearly falls into the rack of clothes. Because the laughter is coming from an absolutely gorgeous woman, a woman who’s grinning at him. “Excited?” she asks. 

For a minute, he has no idea what to say. His brain has totally frozen up, like a first-generation Pentium trying to run the newest version of Windows. Because this woman? She’s beyond hot and she’s laughing at him in a nice way. Like he’s really funny and amusing. 

When he realizes she’s waiting for him to say something, Chuck finally catches up. “Yeah! Um, yes. It’s hard for me to find jeans. Or any clothes, really. Not that I’m picky or anything. I’ve just grown a lot lately. My sister jokes that if I could just go around naked, it’d solve so many problems. But it wouldn’t, because I’d get arrested. For nudity.” 

_Oh my God, stop talking stop talking stop talking!_ His brain is doing all it can to make his lips stop moving, but his mouth is like a runaway train. 

The woman laughs again, in that nice way, and nods. “Getting arrested would be a bad thing.” 

Chuck nods. “I wouldn’t want to wreck my life, just because I couldn’t find a pair of jeans that fit.” 

“We can’t have that. Go try them on and I’ll tell you what I think.” 

“What?!?” Chuck blinks at her, feeling very confused. And also really nervous. Because . . . it was one thing to have Ellie eye him and tell him if he was good to go. But this woman? She was beautiful, wearing expensive-looking clothes--she clearly knew a lot about style. Unlike him. 

She gives him a small smile and all but pushes him towards the fitting rooms. “Go on. You can pretend I’m your sister.”

_No one has that good of an imagination_ , he thinks as he walks towards the fitting room, not sure why he was going along with her. But . . . but it would be kind of nice to have a woman’s opinion. A woman who wasn’t related to him. And he did need to try on the jeans to make sure they’d fit his legs. 

Still, he wonders why the mystery woman was offering to help him. Maybe he could ask her that when he came out of the fitting room, in the jeans that actually feel pretty good. They even make him look kinda cool, he thinks, giving himself one last look in the mirror. 

“So, what do you think?” he says when he steps out of the room. He frowns when she’s not there waiting for him, then starts looking around. He searches the whole store, only to realize that when he went into the fitting room, she must have bolted. 

There’s tons of reasons for her to leave, but Chuck can’t help thinking it’s because she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Which is nice and all . . . but also kind of ironic. Because he does feel a little bit hurt. 

Chuck looks at himself in the mirror and sighs a little. At least the jeans fit. 

XXX

_She hadn’t had any encounters with a teenage Chuck before. Seeing him, clearly getting used to his much-taller body . . . it was adorable. If she thought he was occasionally clumsy and downright nerdy now, it was nothing compared to how he had been during her latest trip to the past. But it was also sad. Because she could see the worry in him, how tense his shoulders were as he stood in that dingy Goodwill and tried to find a pair of jeans that would fit his gangly limbs. Chuck had looked about sixteen, which meant it had been a good two years since his father had left him and Ellie. The two siblings must have been barely getting by._

_If only she had found the time to leave money with the cashier to pay for the jeans. That thought made Sarah wince. A time traveler without enough time. Although she hadn’t had any money on her, either. Sarah made a mental note to start stashing twenties in all of her clothes, just in case._

_Sarah sighed as she sipped her coffee and looked over at Chuck’s coffee and eggs, growing cold and congealed. She hated when she came back from a trip only to find that her boyfriend had “leaped,” to use his word for traveling into the past. Because whenever she came back from a trip, she didn’t feel like herself until she had gotten a chance to kiss Chuck and tell him that she loved him. Meeting him, falling in love with him and getting to be with him . . . it made time travel a lot less scary. And definitely more interesting._

XXX 

The book is really expensive. It’s not fair: why does a glorified workbook cost so much money? The girl who was born Sam but is now Jenny Burton doesn’t really know. But if she’s going to pass geometry, she needs that book for her extra-credit assignment. 

There’s no sense in asking her dad for the money. First off, they’re broke, thanks to the last few cons not panning out. Which was her fault, according to her dad. In the last year, Jenny had refused to help him with cons and now they were suffering because of it. But she just couldn’t do it. If her dad went after scumbags and frauds, it’d be one thing. But no, “Jack Burton” specialized in bilking elderly women and ministers: good people who didn’t deserve to be taken just because they didn’t know all the cons. 

She wouldn’t help him rip off people that reminded her of her grandma, the woman who had raised her until she had chosen life with her dad. Sometimes, Jenny wondered what her life might be like if her seven-year-old self had made a different decision.

So asking Dad was out. And try as she might, she couldn’t seem to find a job. She was willing to do nearly anything legal that would pay her a little money, but people always seemed to hire the kind of girl that Jenny wasn’t: the kind who could smile and laugh at dumb jokes, who knew the right clothes to wear and the right TV shows to watch. 

Jenny let her eyes move around the bookstore, casually. Not like a girl who was about to shoplift. Because using a five-finger discount was the only option if she was going to get that book and pass geometry--a totally pointless kind of math, in Jenny’s opinion. 

The clerk wasn’t noticing anything other than the two sorority girls who were bending over in front of the desk, giving him an eyeful of their overdeveloped chests and tattooed lower backs. The only other person in the store was some grad student-looking guy, reading a comic book in the next aisle. 

Taking a deep breath, Jenny checked for cameras or security mirrors. There weren’t any in this little indie bookstore, so she carefully picked up the workbook and held it behind her back. She’s just about ready to stick it down her pants and use her shirt to hide the rest, when a voice says quietly, “Have you considered the library?”

Jolting in surprise at the interruption, Jenny turns around. As she does, she loses her grip on the book and it falls to the floor, making a loud fwap as it takes a few books with it on the way down to the grubby carpet tiles. 

The voice belongs to the grad student guy, who walks around the book case and bends down to pick up the book. “You can probably find this in the library,” he says before meeting her eyes and speaking in a whisper. “You don’t wanna steal this.” 

Over the last few years, she’s gotten really good at shoplifting. She’s done it dozens--no, a hundred times now. But something about the way this guy is looking at her makes her feel flustered. Flustered and embarrassed and ashamed. 

“I--I wasn’t gonna . . . ” Her voice trails off as she realizes how stupid it is to lie when he caught her red-handed. She takes the book and hugs it against her chest. 

The man tilts his head before, strangely, smiling at her. “It’s okay. I stole a few books in my day. And I got caught and nearly screwed up my whole life. So when I saw you . . . I don’t want that to happen to you.” 

Jenny blinks. “You--you don’t?” Why would he care if something bad happens to her? 

“Nope,” the guy says breezily. “So give the library a try first, okay? Or maybe ask one of your classmates to lend you the book. I bet there’s somebody else who has it, right?” 

Who _is_ this guy? Jenny takes another look at him, trying to figure him out. He looks early twenties, maybe, with messy curly hair and brown eyes. Kinda ordinary looking, really. But he’s just so . . . nice. And normally that would be less than nothing to say about someone, but this guy--it fits him. Because he’s nice, in the good sense of the word. 

She nods a little and nibbles on her lower lip before speaking. “Yeah . . . there’s someone I could ask.” Sure, Brent was one of the rich kids, but he was pretty generous. In that whole “here, poor peasant, enjoy my kindness” way. It was show-offy and fake, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

But before she asked Brent, she would take this guy’s advice and try the library. 

“Great,” the mystery man says, grinning at her. “Good luck--and be careful out there.” 

His words echo in her head for some reason. Jenny shakes her head and turns to put the book back on the shelf, so he knows she’s not going to steal it. “You, too,” she says as she looks back at him, only to look around in confusion when he’s not there anymore. 

With a frown, Jenny hoists her backpack onto her shoulders and leaves the bookstore, setting out for the long walk to the library. 

XXX

_Oh my God, time travel was so awesome! One minute he had been sitting in Professor Fleming’s class, the next he was in a bookstore, getting to read one of his favorite issues of Teen Titans from eight years ago. What was more, he had helped that girl avoid his own near-fate by talking her out of shoplifting._

_At least, Chuck hoped he had done that. He hadn’t had as much time as he thought he would. So far, he’d only made a few leaps, and the amount of time seemed to vary. Most trips had only been a minute or two; today’s had been the longest one yet at over fifteen minutes._

_Traveling in time--or as the journalists and scientists called it, Unexplained Excursions to the Past or UEP for short--was still a new phenomenon, one that didn’t affect many people. One theory said that the trips in which you came into contact with your anchor would be longer. It was just a matter of figuring out who your anchor was and seeking them out immediately when you realized you were in the past. So far, Chuck didn’t know who his anchor was, but if the theory was correct, they must have been in that book store._

_Maybe his next leap back would help fill in more of the blanks . . ._

XXX

It was another sunny, beautiful day in southern California. Not that they didn’t have a lot of those, but something about today makes even super-student Chuck wish he wasn’t in school. When the bell rings, he deliberates about what he should do. Morgan has detention, due to an unfortunate incident involving a frog in biology class and the most popular and least smart girl in school being convinced to enact The Princess and the Frog. So Chuck is on his own, and he doesn’t feel like going back to his empty house. With Ellie off at UCLA during the week, he gets lonely staying by himself, especially now that the appeal of being alone in the house has long worn off. 

But hey, it’s a good day. Maybe he could stop by the coffee shop and do his homework there. Morgan could meet him there and then they could go right to Morgan’s house, for his weekly dinner with Morgan and his mom. 

Yeah, that’s a good plan. So with a spring in his step, Chuck walks to the coffee shop and gets in line, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. He’s looking up at the menu board, calculating how much money he has and if he can afford a medium white chocolate mocha or if he should get a small, when someone knocks him forward, nearly into the person in front of him. 

“Whoa!” he says, hoping it’s not one of the bullies from school. It’s crazy that even post-growth spurt, he’s still not safe from the jerks who pick on the kids they think deserve it. 

But it’s not a bully. It’s a woman--a beautiful one--who looks maybe five years older than him. She seems disoriented and confused, her blonde hair covering most of her face as her head whips around the shop. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Chuck says, holding his hands up. “Don’t freak out. Are you okay?” 

She stares at him and bites her lip before nodding. “I--I’m fine.” 

Chuck’s not sure he believes her, but he smiles and nods back. “Great. That’s good. Are you sure?” Before the woman can say anything, Chuck grimaces. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that. I’ll leave you alone now.”

He’s already turning back around before he’s even finished speaking, but then there’s a hand on his arm. “No, it was nice of you,” the woman says. “Thank you for asking. I . . . I’m a little out of it today.” 

“Aren’t we all?” Chuck asks with a smile. “That’s why we’re standing in line at a coffee shop.” 

“I definitely need a coffee,” she says, sliding her hands into her pockets. Then her face falls. “Damn it.” 

“What is it?”

She sighs, her shoulders slumping. “I don’t have any money.” 

In the back of his mind, he can hear Ellie telling him not to fall for this. That he shouldn’t trust beautiful women who don’t have money. Meanwhile, a voice that sounds like Morgan says, “First coffee, then her phone number, then who knows?” 

“I’ll just . . .” the woman says, taking a few steps back to get out of line. But the wistful look she throws at the menu board decides things for Chuck. 

“Wait,” he says, reaching out to take her elbow. The moment his fingers make contact with her, Chuck feels a charge. A spark. Something he’s never felt when he’s touched another person. He stares at her and she stares back, looking equally shocked. 

A throat clears and Chuck realizes he’s now at the head of the line and the cashier is waiting for his order. He feels his ears turn red as he looks at the woman. “This one is on me.” 

“Oh, no, I couldn’t--”

“I insist,” Chuck says, giving a small tug on her elbow and pulling her up to the counter. “What’s your pleasure?” 

He hopes she’s not one of those fluffy coffee drink types, but looking at her, he doesn’t think so. She’s beautiful, yes, but in a way that makes him think there’s more to her than her looks. A lot more. 

“A . . . a small black coffee,” she says, looking at him. 

Heaving an inner sigh of relief, Chuck turns to the barista. “A small black coffee and a small white chocolate mocha, please.” 

The barista nods and gets to work, and Chuck looks at the woman. “The coffee here is great. You’ll really enjoy it.” 

“I’m sure I will. Thank you so much for paying,” she says, giving him a shy smile. 

“You--you’re very welcome,” Chuck says, feeling butterflies start tap-dancing in his stomach. “I’m glad I’m here to help.” 

The woman smiles wider and holds her hand out to him. “I’m Sarah. And since I don’t accept coffee from strangers, you’re . . . ?” 

“Oh!” Chuck rubs his hand against his jeans and then takes hers, feeling that spark again. “Chuck. I’m Chuck.” 

“Chuck?” she repeats, holding on to his hand. “That’s a nice name.” 

“You might be the first person since my parents to think so,” he says without thinking, then groans softly. Bringing up his parents? What was he, eight instead of eighteen? 

Thankfully, Sarah just smiles at him and then takes the coffees that the barista hands over while Chuck pays. She gestures to a table by the front of the shop, right by the row of tall windows, and Chuck follows her, wondering how he got so lucky. If anyone from school walks by and sees him with someone like Sarah . . . 

_What are you, some kind of Neanderthal?_ Ellie shrieks in his head. _Ask her questions! Make her feel special, instead of just thinking about yourself!_

“So, um . . .” he says, taking a seat across from her. “Do you live around here?” 

Sarah doesn’t respond right away; she puts some sugar in her coffee and sips it before answering. “Actually, I live in D.C. I’m just . . . visiting.”

“I’ve never been to Washington! Is it nice? All the museums and the government and everything?” Chuck knows he’s talking really fast and he hasn’t even drunk any of his mocha. He makes himself take a few deep breaths. 

“I haven’t lived there very long--I just graduated from college and I’ve moved there for work,” Sarah says, wrapping her hands around her mug. “What about you?” 

“Me?” Chuck asks, sipping his mocha--what a great way to stall for time! “Well, um, I’m going to Stanford in the fall . . .” 

He kinda wishes he didn’t have to reveal that he’s only just starting college, but then, if she’s only visiting, he shouldn’t get his hopes up too high about anything happening, really. Even though something about Sarah makes his heart pound. 

“Congratulations,” Sarah says, smiling at him. “It’s a great school.” 

Chuck flushes. “Thank you. I, I’m really excited to go there.” He takes another sip of coffee, hoping the hot beverage could be an explanation for his red ears. 

For a few moments, they don’t talk. They just drink coffee and look out the windows and catch each other’s eyes occasionally. And Chuck can’t explain it, but he feels like he knows Sarah. 

His coffee is nearly done and he’s trying to figure out a way to make this good feeling last longer, when Sarah takes a deep breath and stands up. “I’m sorry to drink and run, but--but I have to go. Thank you for the coffee, Chuck, and--and I hope I can pay you back someday.” 

“What? I mean, that’s nice, but you can pay me back by just paying it forward sometime, but you’ve got to go?” Chuck rises to his feet, wishing he could make her stay longer.

She looks at him, then nods. “Yeah, I have to go. It was really nice to meet you, Chuck.” Sarah holds her hand out to him, her fingers slim and graceful-looking. When he takes her hand, her grip is strong. 

And there’s the electricity again. 

Taking a long look into her blue eyes, Chuck manages to smile and nod. “It was good to meet you, too, Sarah. I guess, have a nice life?” He shrugs his shoulders sheepishly, and she smiles back at him. 

“You, too.” She lets go of his hand and steps away, turning around quickly and dashing for the doors. 

It’s not a good thing when a woman practically runs away from you like that. But Chuck can’t help thinking that Sarah didn’t want to leave. 

Maybe he’s just fooling himself. He sinks down into his chair and stares blankly out the window of the coffee shop, and he hopes he might cross paths with Sarah again someday. Because after all, the world is pretty strange.

XXX

_Oh my God, time travel was awful! It’s confusing and disorientating and Sarah doesn’t like it. At all._

_The worst of it was how she reacted to her first UEP: emotionally, without using her training. What kind of spy would she be if she reacted like that whenever a mission went a little bit wrong? Her training coordinator had tried to reassure her, telling her that the few spies who had experienced UEP had admitted how little their training had prepared them for the experience. But Sarah didn’t want to listen to false reassurances._

_Part of her didn’t even want to admit she was a time traveler. But she had to accept it, so she could figure out how to handle it. But the whole thing seemed so pointless. What was the point of going into the past if you can’t change anything, if you can’t control where you end up or when you can come back? She had never considered herself a control freak, but she might have to change that opinion._

_Showing up someplace without any money, with no idea of where or when she was . . . Sarah doesn’t like that feeling. It was just luck that let her find someone who was nice to her. Who didn’t try to take advantage of her confusion. It was actually kind of nice, to find someone who restored a bit of her faith in humanity. After how she grew up, and four years of spy training, that faith has become a bit bruised._

_The next time she traveled in time, though, she couldn’t count on finding some nice guy to help her out while she got her bearings. She would have to be smarter, better. More like a spy._

End, Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

Moving her feet briskly, Sarah waits impatiently for the streetlights to change so she can continue her run. The air is already soupy in Washington at seven in the morning; combining with the typical heavy traffic, her run this morning has been frustratingly slow. 

She glances at her watch and sighs a little, knowing that she’ll have to take a very quick shower before heading over to Langley. She won’t have time to get this brown dye out of her hair, a remnant of last night’s mission that she was too exhausted to deal with when she returned home at midnight. 

When she looks back up, there’s a man standing in the crosswalk, holding his head in his hands as if he’s in pain. And there’s a large SUV with diplomatic plates bearing down on him, the driver too distracted by his cell phone conversation to notice the man he’s about to flatten. 

On instinct, Sarah dashes into the crosswalk, grabs the man by the arms and yanks him out of the path of the SUV, a few loud honks emanating from the vehicle as it swerves around them. Sarah ignores it as she looks over the still-dazed man. 

“Sir? Sir, are you all right?” she asks, trying to sound like she does this everyday. Which, in a way, she does. But something about him makes her feel a little bit worried. If he looked or smelled like somebody who was homeless or a drug addict, she could understand what had happened, could understand how he had just ended up in the crosswalk at the wrong time. But that didn’t seem to be the case with this man: he was dressed in a suit and appeared to be in his mid-thirties at least. His hair was clean and fairly tidy, although the humidity was making his hair curl before her eyes. And he had a wedding ring on his left ring finger. 

So a man just appearing in a crosswalk . . . he must be a time traveler as well. She’s never encountered someone else who does this, and Sarah wonders if she might have time to talk to him a little. Find out some answers to the questions that have been nagging at her for the last two years, ever since her first trip into the past. 

Sarah lowers her voice and leans closer to the man, who still hasn’t taken his head out of his hands. “Sir? Do you know what day it is?” 

“A day I wish I coulda spent in bed,” the man says, sounding like he’s forcing himself to laugh off his worries. The ease with which he does it makes Sarah think he does that a lot. 

“It’s August 4, 2004,” she says, giving him the information she always tries to discover as soon as she arrives in the past. 

He lifts his head, finally out of the grip of whatever pain he was suffering, and makes eye contact with her. And Sarah feels her stomach drop, because . . . because she doesn’t know why. Brown eyes, curly brown hair, tall: he’s not handsome like a movie star or full of charm like so many of the spies she knows, but there’s something about him that makes her feel like there’s a connection between them. 

Or maybe it’s the way her hands, still gripping his arms, are tingling, and those tingles are spreading through her whole body. 

But the strangest thing is, the man seems to know her. His eyes are wide and his mouth opens and shuts a few times. Then, softly, he whispers, “Sarah?” 

Sarah drops her hands from his arms and steps back. “How do you know my name?” she asks, already having an idea of the answer but scared to contemplate it. Because the only explanation for him to say her name in such an intimate way is if he knows her. But how does this man know her? How well does he know her, to say her name like that? And why does it feel like she knows him?

It’s so tempting to run. But then she remembers her first trip to the past. How confused and disoriented she was, how lucky she was to have someone to help her. She had vowed, then and there, to always do the same if the positions were reversed. So she swallows and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, you must still be confused. From the . . . you know.” 

He presses his lips together, a flash of stubbornness flickering over his face for a moment before vanishing. Then he nods and gives her a weak smile. “Yeah, I must be. Sorry. And thanks for the date check. 2004, huh?” 

“Yeah,” she says, doing her best to give him a friendly-and-nothing-else smile. “Are you okay from here? I need to get going.” 

For the first time, he looks her up and down, taking in her tight workout clothes. Unlike most men, he doesn’t give her a leer or a suggestive comment. Which is a nice change. 

“No, no, I’m good,” he says, returning his eyes to her face. “Thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.” 

Sarah knows this is the moment she should just say good-bye and leave him, but she’s hesitating and she doesn’t know why. Although deep down, she does know. She just doesn’t want to think about that right now, with the man’s warm brown eyes focused on her. 

“You’re welcome,” she says quickly, taking a few steps back and getting ready to jog away.

“Be careful out there. DC traffic, you know,” he says, gesturing to the streets in front of them. 

It’s not a funny line or anything. But Sarah finds herself giving him a quick smile as she moves into the crosswalk that’s open to pedestrians now. And as she jogs away, Sarah uses all her spy training to keep him in sight until she’s run too far away. 

XXX

_Crap. He broke the first rule of traveling in time: don’t reveal that you’re a time traveler. There’s bad stories about some of the first travelers, people too scared and shocked to stay quiet, and they ended up in a lot of trouble and a lot of dangerous situations._

_But there were mitigating circumstances, Chuck argued with himself. Having a leap trigger while he was flashing introduced him to a new definition of pain and suffering, to quote Return of the Jedi. So when he looked up and realized he had been saved from becoming a pancake by the younger version of his wife . . . who wouldn’t blurt out her name? Give in to the relief washing over him at being with someone who cared?_

_That was the thing, though. That Sarah? She didn’t care about him. She didn’t even know him. Based on the date (and it was such a *Sarah* thing to figure out he was a time traveler and tell him what day it was), it was over three years until they would meet. It was before Sarah had started to realize that being a spy, as good as she was at it, wasn’t always good for her. Before her mission with the baby and her mom. Before she even met Bryce, in fact._

_Chuck didn’t mind that Sarah had lied to him, had denied that she was, in fact, Sarah. He knew his wife and he could only guess what some stranger calling her by name had made her think. But he wondered if maybe, just maybe, seeing him that day in 2004 had planted a seed in Sarah. Made her start reconsidering her path, deep in her subconscious._

_The logical side of him said it wasn’t possible, that time travel didn’t work like that. But then, who knew how time travel worked? The very fact that two travelers could have each other for anchors was unprecedented. Decades of reading and watching science-fiction told Chuck that anything was possible._

_Like two time travelers falling in love._

XXX

He can’t take any more of this. As nice as it was for Ellie to throw him a birthday party, she knows that he doesn’t like parties for his birthday. And while he appreciates that she’s always so positive that there’s a woman out there for him, he has to say, his sister is a lousy matchmaker. That thought makes him feel like a jerk, and he senses it’s just a matter of time before he says something he’ll regret. It’s time to be alone for a bit and get his head on straight.

So Chuck slips out of the courtyard and finds a quiet spot under some palm trees, in the grassy strip that runs between the wall of the courtyard and the parking lot behind the complex. He can still hear the music from the party and he’s got a beer that’s three-quarters full. All he’d need is Morgan for this to be just what he wanted for his birthday.

Stretching his legs out, Chuck gazes up at the moon and stars visible through the smog and sips his beer slowly. Answering all those questions tonight, seeing people’s eyes flick away from his after a few moments and start searching for someone else to talk to . . . he had never felt like more of a loser. Here he was, twenty-six years old, and he was working at a Buy More. No career, no money, no girlfriend. None of the things he thought he’d have, five years after Stanford. 

But then, without a degree and branded as a cheater, how could he have any of those things?

It’s not fair. He’s not a cheater, but no one at Stanford had believed him when he said those tests weren’t his. Not even Jill, the girl he had been planning to--

No. He didn’t want to think about Jill anymore tonight. About Jill’s betrayal, or Bryce’s, or the way all his hopes and dreams had been thwarted. 

Chuck lets out a soft snort. “Thwarted.” Now he knows he’s a little bit drunk, when he starts getting all Shakespearean. He leans his head back and takes a long pull from his beer. 

There’s a click of heels against the pavement, then some floral fragrance that makes Chuck lower his beer bottle in confusion. 

“Hi,” says the sweet-smelling vision in front of him. She’s wearing some kind of floaty white dress and high heels, but what really draws his attention is her face. Because she’s got the bluest eyes he’s ever seen. “Mind if I join you?” 

What? His slightly-sodden brain needs a few moments to make sense of this request. Because the woman standing in front of him is spectacular. She looks like the world is her oyster, but here she is, asking if she can join him. 

Not knowing what to say, he nods slowly, and the woman smiles and takes a seat next to him on the grass, stretching out her oh-so-long legs beside his. “I have another party tonight, so I just wanted a few minutes of quiet before I leave,” she says, looking at him. 

She’s going to get grass stains on her dress is all Chuck can think, but even in his current condition he knows not to point that out. Because it might make her leave. “Are you a friend of Ellie’s?” Chuck asks instead, feeling a bit dumb and trying to make all the pieces fit. 

The woman smiles and nods, tucking some of her blonde hair behind her ear. Chuck is almost blinded by the size of the rock on her finger. Of course. A woman like her has to be taken. “I am. Soon we’ll be--” 

She stops talking and presses her lips together, as if she’s holding back the words, then she looks at him. “So why are you out here, birthday boy?” 

So she knows it’s his birthday. Ellie must have invited her as part of her matchmaking attempts--but this was a definite misfire, Chuck could already tell. This woman was so out of his league. And what was Ellie thinking, inviting an engaged woman to his birthday party? That didn’t make any sense. Maybe she was just a friend of Ellie’s from the hospital who liked parties? But no . . . that didn’t seem like this woman. Not with her stated desire for some quiet. Not when she didn’t give off that “medical professional” vibe Chuck gets from the hospital people here tonight. 

Shaking his head, Chuck brushes aside all those questions and decides to just go with the flow. “‘Cause I didn’t want a birthday party, and no one wants to come to a pity party, so . . .” He spreads his hands wide and shrugs. 

“Ellie’s always singing your praises. The brother she describes, I didn’t think he’d want to have a pity party.” 

Chuck snorts. “Well, Ellie sees the best in people.” 

The rudeness of that reply penetrates his brain and Chuck flushes. He looks at the woman, whose eyes are narrowed. “I’m sorry . . . I’m dumping my baggage on you. You--you can stay here and I’ll go somewhere else--” 

“No, don’t go,” she says, reaching out and resting her hand on his arm, stopping him in a clumsy half-sitting, half-standing position. The touch of her fingers makes him feel like fireworks are going off inside him and he plops back down beside her, not wanting to move from this spot. Because for the first time in five years, he feels a bubble of hope forming inside himself and he’s not quite ready to pop it. 

She smiles at him. “I’m Sarah, by the way.” 

“Chuck--I’m Chuck. But you must already know that, since you seem to know me,” Chuck says slowly, his brain finally starting to work. 

“Through Ellie, yes,” the woman says smoothly. “I owe her a lot, so I fit in a stop here before my own party.” 

“It’s your party you’re going to?” Chuck asks, shifting a little to get comfortable. 

The way this woman smiles makes him feel more drunk than the beers he’s had. Because her smiles make her even more beautiful. But more than that, it’s like her happiness is just radiating from her. Making him feel warm and special. 

“Yeah . . . my engagement party. In less than a week, I’m marrying the love of my life,” she says softly.

With how he’s been feeling tonight, Chuck expects to feel depressed by her words. But instead, he feels glad. He’s only known her a few moments, but he gets the sense that Sarah is as surprised by what she’s got as he is to have her sitting here next to him. 

“He must be pretty special.” 

Sarah grins, which is different from her smiles but no less attractive an expression. “He is. It took him a long time to realize it--about as long as it took me to realize how special I am.” 

“Really?” Chuck asks, feeling shocked. Because doesn’t this woman have a mirror? Of course she’s special. 

She shrugs one bare shoulder and looks at him. “You were just throwing yourself a pity party on your birthday, when you’re surrounded by family and friends. Before I met my fiancée, I never had that. No family, no friends . . . just my job, and that wasn’t enough. But I didn’t realize that until I met him.” 

As Sarah speaks, Chuck finds himself growing even more curious about her. She’s a knockout, of course, and she also seems to be a good person. Smart, interesting . . . how had the world not shown her how amazing she was? If it took her fiancée for her to discover that, Chuck’s hat was off to the guy. It almost makes him wish he could buy the guy a beer. 

“It sounds like a great romance. You and your fiancée,” Chuck says, setting aside his beer bottle. 

“It is,” she says, smiling at him. 

Chuck rubs the back of his neck with his hand. “I’m not gonna lie, I’m jealous of you both.”

Sarah laughs softly. “Well, don’t be. You’ll find your own great romance.”

The last thing he wants is to descend back into self-pity. Wallowing like that isn’t attractive, and he just . . . he wants to make a good impression on Sarah, wants her to think well of him. So instead of making some kind of passive-aggressive ploy for sympathy, Chuck takes a deep breath. “I sure hope so.” 

There’s silence between them for a few moments, but the comfortable kind. Then Sarah gently bumps her shoulder against his. “It’s your birthday. Make a wish and as long as you don’t tell anyone, it’ll come true.” 

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Chuck says, grinning a little. “Not telling anyone just ups the chances of the wish coming true.” 

“Nope,” Sarah says with her own grin. “I say that as long as you don’t tell, it’ll come true. So close your eyes and make a wish, Chuck.” 

Needless to say, he’s a bit skeptical. But then . . . why not try it? With how he dislikes his birthday, Chuck doesn’t normally bother making wishes. After all, how is that any different from how he’s spent the last five years, wanting things to be different? Wanting and wishing might be different things, though. 

Still, he warns her. “If you’re going to take advantage of my eyes being closed to tie my shoelaces together or something . . .” 

Sarah’s laugh rings out, bright and happy. “I wouldn’t do that, but thanks for giving me the idea for the future.” 

“Clearly, you are the type to play pranks--I’m not fooled by your pretty face,” he says. That might be a bit more flirtatious than he should be, but Sarah doesn’t seem too upset by it. 

“Go on,” she says, knocking their shoulders together again. “Let go of your baggage and just make a wish.” 

Even though he’s a bit loathe to close his eyes, because then he wouldn’t be looking at her, Chuck nods and closes his eyes. He breathes in and out as different possibilities present themselves to him. He could wish for money or success, for an amazing woman of his own, for anything in the world. 

But when he hits upon the right wish, he knows. I want to be as happy as Sarah is. 

Maybe it’s a lousy wish, because after all, he barely knows Sarah. But somehow, he knows that she is happy, and that’s what he wants for himself. 

“Okay, all done,” he says, opening his eyes. “But no asking--” 

The words die on his lips as he realizes that Sarah is gone. Damn it, he thinks to himself.

It might be for the best, since she was with someone else, someone who was bound to be a better, more deserving man than he was. But . . . but he could be better, too. He could change and grow up and become the kind of man who found the love of his life. 

And a good way to get started was to go back into the party and give it a real try. Maybe he wouldn’t make a love connection tonight, but he could find some new friends or just pass a few hours in conversation. He at least had to try. 

Chuck pushes himself up from the ground, snagging his beer bottle so he wouldn’t be a litterbug, and starts walking back to the courtyard. Just as he steps inside, he thinks he catches a whiff of floral perfume, a scent that makes him think of Sarah. So even though he knows it’s fruitless and she’s probably long gone, he still looks around for her. Just in case.

XXX

_“Welcome back, baby.”_

_Sarah steadied herself against the sink and looked at Chuck. “Thanks,” she says, turning to wrap her arms around him and hug him tightly, even though they were already running late for the party and she hadn’t even started her make-up._

_His hand softly stroked her hair. “Everything okay?”_

_She nodded against his chest. “I was at your birthday party, the day before we met.”_

_“Ahhh,” Chuck said, his hands resting against her back. “Not one of my finest moments.”_

_“Not really,” she agreed, lifting her head to look up at him. “You can really throw yourself a pity party.”_

_Chuck laughed and kissed her temple. “That I can.”_

_“It was a little infuriating to see,” Sarah said, making herself pull away and focus on applying her makeup._

_He looked at her out of the corner of his eye as he fussed with his hair, clearly curious about what she meant._

_“To see how lost that Chuck was, how blind he was to all the good he had around him, the good inside him . . . it was hard to watch you like that,” Sarah said. “Not that you weren’t justified in your feelings, but being stuck like that for five years--my heart just breaks a little over it.”_

_“Yeah,” Chuck said softly, looking at the floor. “These trips seem to do that, y’know?”_

_Sarah nodded. “Yeah.”_

_“But I also wonder if we would have fallen for each other without them,” Chuck said, finishing with his hair and moving to stand behind her, resting his hands on her hips and gazing at her in the mirror. “If they didn’t make it possible.”_

_“I don’t see how--it’s not like you remember when I visit you or vice versa,” Sarah said, dusting some powder over her face._

_Chuck shrugged his shoulders. “Falling in love is even less understood than time travel. How do we know that those trips didn’t bring us together, in a way we can’t even realize or understand?”_

_She considered that, her mascara wand held in one hand. Could that explain how they fell in love? All those times their paths crossed, the fact that they were the only time travelers to have another traveler as an anchor . . . whatever relationship they had with each other in their normal timeline, the way they had interacted with each other in the past guaranteed the connection between them._

_But to Sarah, that was too easy an explanation. It overlooked all the hard work they had both done, all the times they had to make a choice amid so many conflicting emotions and facts. If anything, her trips to the past, seeing Chuck grow up, had sometimes confused her more, not less._

_Meeting Chuck’s eyes in the mirror, Sarah smiled at him. “Maybe. But I think us being together was decided a long time before we met. Any of the times we met.”_

_“Romantic and practical at the same time,” Chuck said with a wide grin. “That, right there, is why I love you, Sarah Walker.”_

_Sarah laughed as Chuck kissed her cheek and then made a face at getting ‘a mouthful of make-up’. She continued putting her face on, looking forward to the party tonight and all that was ahead of her. Not just the wedding and the honeymoon, but the rest of her life. Buying a house, having children, growing old . . . she was going to have it all._

_And she would have it all with Chuck. Which made it exciting and fun and challenging and a little scary, but also everything she wanted now. After never thinking she would get this kind of future, it was nearly in her grasp. Nothing was going to get in her way: not time travel or self-doubt or terrorists._

_Nothing would get in *their* way._

XXX

Sarah crosses her legs and adjusts her jacket. Normally she doesn’t have a problem with waiting--no spy does, really, given how many hours of your life are spent sitting in surveillance vans and lookout positions, watching for something to happen. Watching other people live their lives. But when she has to wait to meet with the Deputy Director of the CIA, and their meeting will be about the biggest mistake of her life . . . waiting sucks. 

To keep from fidgeting, Sarah takes a few deep breaths and attempts to focus. Trys to prepare herself for the most important meeting of her career. But when she closes her eyes, all she sees is the baby. The baby that made her wonder if she would ever hold one again. If she would ever hold a baby of her own. 

This is ridiculous. She had never been a woman who got all soppy over children, who dreamed of getting married and raising a family. And even if she had . . . all of her choices had taken her away from such a life. So she doesn’t understand why she keeps thinking about that baby, about her choice to hide it--to hide her with her own mother. 

Opening her eyes, Sarah does all she can to project an unflappable, calm exterior. To look like everything’s fine. Because it is. She’ll get a new assignment and find a way to forget about the baby, to forget about Bryce’s betrayal, to forget all of it and just be a spy. 

_But is that really what you want?_

“Nervous?” 

The combination of her mocking mental voice, which sounds a lot like Carina Miller, and the unexpected question makes her startle. She turns her head in the direction of the questioner and sees a man she didn’t notice when she entered the office. He’s older, possibly older than Graham if the salt-and-pepper brown hair and glasses are anything to judge by. 

He smiles at her from his spot two chairs away from her. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

Tucking some hair behind her ear, Sarah straightens her shoulders. “No, it’s fine. I just have a lot on my mind.” She pauses and looks at him. “Why did you ask if I was nervous?” 

The man, who’s got an ID badge clipped to his lapel in a way that she can’t read his name, chuckles softly. It’s a nice sound, one that puts her at ease, strangely enough. “You’re sitting in the office of the deputy director of the CIA and you were biting your lower lip.” He shrugs and smiles at her again. “I took a wild guess.” 

“Oh,” Sarah says, turning her head as she runs her tongue over her lower lip. There’s definitely a bit of an abrasion there, like she was nibbling on her lip. 

She turns back to the man, who’s shifting in his chair a little and moving his long legs. From the looks of him, he’s well over six feet tall. She wonders who he is. 

“I’m sure whatever you’re meeting the deputy director for, it’ll all work out.” 

“Thanks,” Sarah says, hoping she doesn’t sound too sarcastic. Because she’s not so hopeful, and most agents would glory in seeing Sarah Walker taken down a peg or four. Yet she doubts someone like this man is aware of the comings-and-goings of the younger agents like her, and it is nice of him to try and comfort her. But something must have leaked through, because the man grins. 

“Easy for me to say, right?” He shrugs. “Yeah, it is. But I guess after thirty years of working here, I’ve learned a lot.” 

“Thirty years?” Sarah asks, feeling curious. Spying is a young man’s game--or a young woman’s. Most agents retire or move to other government agencies once they reach a certain age, especially those in Operations who work in the field. And while this man’s whole personality screams that he’s an analyst and not a field agent, Sarah’s not so sure. There’s a kind of stillness about him that speaks of someone who knows what it’s like out there. Not necessarily physically, but . . . she can’t put her finger on it, but she just knows that he’s spent plenty of time in the field. 

He nods. “Yeah. It’s hard to believe. Seems like just yesterday I was getting started.” He looks around, his eyes landing on the calendar hanging behind the desk of Graham’s assistant, and his eyes narrow. He mutters something under his breath, but Sarah’s only able to catch the word “today” when whatever came over him passes and he’s smiling at her again. “So yeah. Take it from the old man: you’re going to be okay.” 

“Thank you,” she says softly and sincerely. Something about him, whoever this man is, makes her feel . . . there isn’t a word to describe it. It’s a bit like Graham’s support and encouragement, or the way she felt when she was small and was able to fall asleep in the car while her father was driving. There’s even a little of the heat that she feels with Bryce. It’s all that and more, a group of disconnected emotions that Sarah can’t identify. 

It’s more disconcerting and worrying than anything that will happen in her meeting with Graham, Sarah suspects. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the man rub his thumb against a wedding ring. It looks like a habit he’s been doing for years, which makes the question she’s suddenly asking even more redundant. “Have you been married long?” 

He looks at her in surprise, and Sarah covers her mouth with her hand. “I--I’m so sorry, I have no idea why I asked such a personal question--” 

“No, no, it’s okay,” he says, smiling at her again. “It’s fine. To answer your question, yes, I have been married a long time--it’ll be twenty-five years, next May. My wife and I have three children at home in California.” 

Sarah can almost imagine it: a nice little house in some suburb, filled with kids and a dog and a wife to take care of it all. She wonders what his wife is like. 

“Congratulations,” she says, folding her hands in her lap and wishing that this strange encounter was over--and at the same time, wanting to ask more questions. 

“We’re both retiring from field work soon, so we’ll have more time at home,” the man continues blithely. But his words make Sarah do another double-take. Both he and his wife work for the Agency? That--that was--

“Agent Walker?” 

She’s had too many surprises this afternoon to react with a jump when Graham’s assistant returns to the outer office and speaks to her. She merely turns her head towards the assistant’s desk. 

“The director is ready for you now, Agent Walker,” the assistant says, sitting down at her desk. 

Sarah nods and stands up. “Thank you.” She turns to the man, to . . . she doesn’t know what. But she’s saved from trying to come up with something to say that will conclude this strange conversation, because the man isn’t there anymore. 

Well, that explains the oddness. Realizing you’ve been talking with a time traveler is always a bit jarring, although this conversation was even weirder than usual. 

Still . . . she wishes she caught the agent’s name. But it’s too late now, and the director is waiting. So Sarah walks slowly into Director Graham’s office, hoping that her future isn’t about to take a turn for the worse. 

XXX

_“Where were you this time?”_

_Chuck rolled over and smiled at Sarah, who looks sleepy and rumpled, as only the mother of three children can. Which meant she’s beautiful. “Sitting in Graham’s office, I guess. Not that I was ever there. Watching you nibble on your lower lip before you went in to talk to him about something.”_

_They had long ago discovered that whoever is visited by the other doesn’t remember the encounter. Probably it’s some built-in precaution the universe is taking to prevent horrible life-destroying paradoxes. As a result, when they realized their connection, they promised to always tell each other about said encounters--at least that they happened, if the judgement of the traveler felt that anything more was too dangerous._

_Time travel is still, after forty years of study, a mystery to scientists and most of the world. There’s just no way to really understand it unless you can do it yourself--not that the traveler has much control over the situation. Chuck had sometimes wondered over the years if his and Sarah’s unique connection could help advance science’s understanding, but neither of them had wanted to take the risk of being split up and stuck in a lab for the rest of their lives. Not when Chuck already risked that happening with the Intersect._

_So they’ve made their own rules, based on what Chuck has studied and what information is shared within the time traveler community. And Chuck has already committed to leaving his body to science after his death, so they can study his brain._

_It didn’t make Sarah very happy when he told her his plans, but she understood. After so many years together, so many things that they’ve experienced together and shared together, they don’t worry much about paradoxes anymore. If they were going to cause one, they would have already done it. No secrets, no lies: that’s their motto. It’s helped them as time travelers, but even more it’s helped them as a couple._

_“Was my hair really curly and long?”_

_“I guess?” Chuck said. “It looked longer than it was when we met.”_

_Sarah nodded and smiled at him a little. “In that meeting, Graham told me I was going to Burbank, to find this guy named Chuck Bartowski.”_

_He laughed, wrapping his arms around her. “Yeah? That’s pretty ironic.”_

_Honestly, he had already guessed that was what the younger Sarah’s meeting was about, thanks to having seen what day it was: September 19, 2007. The day after his birthday, the day that the CIA and NSA realized who had received the email that Bryce had sent. The day that he started on the path he had nearly finished._

_At least, the career path._

_“Yeah,” Sarah said, resting her head on his shoulder. “To think, I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I walked into Graham’s office that day . . .”_

_“And look at us now,” Chuck replied, kissing the top of her head. “On the verge of retiring, three kids, happily married with a house in the suburbs . . .”_

_“You want to go skydiving tomorrow?”_

_It was an old joke between them: Chuck enumerating all the ways they had become normal, middle-class, middle-aged people, and Sarah finding a way to remind them both of what they also were: spies, risk-takers, adventure-seekers. Because they could be and were both._

_Just like always, Chuck burst out laughing at Sarah’s question, but even more from the look of mock-horror on her face. Sarah grinned and kissed his cheek. “I know how excited you are about retiring, but I’m looking forward to it, too. Having more time with the kids, getting to travel for fun . . . and best of all, more time with you.”_

_“I know, baby,” he said, pressing a soft kiss against her hair. “That’s why we’re doing it together.”_

_She lifted her head and gave him the same smile he saw nearly thirty years ago across the Nerd Herd desk. “You know what else we could do together, now that you’re back?”_

_Even as his heart rate picks up, Chuck tried to act blasé. “Um . . . go through our paperwork?”_

_“No, Chuck,” she said softly, in a voice that was almost a purr. She pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw and Chuck sighed, giving up on playing dumb._

_“Oh. That.”_

_Sarah’s laugh was almost a giggle, and her eyes danced as she lifted them to his. “Yes, Chuck. That.” She slid on top of him, cupping his face in her hands as she kissed him slowly._

_And as his wife started to move against him, Chuck forgot about the past and the future and thought only of right now._

End.


End file.
